Miracle Drug
by piratesmiley
Summary: Peter convinces Olivia that sleep is actually a good thing, and that coffee is for those who follow the rules of biology and common sense and such. No spoilers. P/O. For op ficathon at LJ.


A/N: For op_ficathon on LJ. This is for lone_pyramid, who gave me my excellent prompt ("coffee, hand-holding, unexpected. Preferably UST/ early romance and pre-TMFTOS. Happy ending appreciated."). Thanks to valkyriegirl and graciebug for beta-ing!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

"I come bearing coffee."

"You're a _god_."

She was half-joking, but she _did_ say it out loud and to his face. Which was exactly the response Peter strived to elicit in the mornings. He found it always made for a good day. Ego inflated, he could walk down the street knowing he made someone happy enough to liken him to any number of deities. It seemed to be a universal connection that anyone – young or old, rich or poor, smart or not-so-smart – could make.

And today, Olivia Dunham decided to join the pile.

(He'd been trying to make her say it for a while now. He hadn't imagined it quite like this, but he would take what he could get.)

He could tell she hadn't slept. That might have made the god comment slip out a little easier. The streaks of darkness under her eyes, the thick quality of her voice, the mess of a ponytail were all indications that she was somnambulistic –and ones to which he had quickly become attuned.

That seemed to be an unchanging issue with her – the fact that she couldn't seem to let go and shut down. Obviously, she wasn't a computer – he couldn't hack in, close out unnecessary programs, save his work, and let her hibernate.

But he could settle for bringing her coffee. _Good enough._

Although why they both were convinced coffee was a miracle drug, Peter couldn't tell. Somehow, he just knew it was. Maybe it was because _she_ was so convinced. He believed in her, she believed in coffee, and because _a = b_ and _b = c_, Peter and coffee could put some trust in each other.

But trust issues aside, he sipped the warmth and let her talk about something he didn't care about. Cases and cases and more of the sort. Connections she was trying to make but couldn't. He could see her struggling. He wondered if she knew that he could _see_ her. _All_ of her, mannerisms and tendencies and idiosyncrasies and perceptions. All of her ridiculousness. All of her perfection. (All objective observations, of course.) He didn't think she could. She assumed he was just as focused as she was on the work at hand.

If everyone were as focused on work as Olivia Dunham, there would be no crime. And pigs would fly. And unicorns would dance on perpetual rainbows. And Peter would just off himself. But that inclination stemmed from his very muddled idea of a utopian society and if he were to get into his philosophies she would actually notice he wasn't paying attention to her, but actually paying attention to _her._

Anyway, he was sick of arguing with no one.

He waited for a lull, then asked. "When was the last time you slept?"

"2006."

"Oh, but really."

"Tuesday."

It was Saturday. He wasn't sure she realized what day it was, which made it worse.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

He snatched the coffee from her hand. There was no way he was enabling her anymore. In protest, she reached out, but he clutched her hand and dragged it down and away from the menacing paper cup. "You need to sleep."

"You know, people keep telling me that, but I really don't think it's true."

"Olivia." Unthinkingly, he squeezed her hand to punctuate. He pronounced her name fully and clearly, as if speaking to a child. She rolled her eyes – another sign of exhaustion. "Why do you have such an ineffable aversion to a normal sleep cycle?"

She didn't answer. She seemed to be lost in thought. Her cheeks grew a little redder.

"Liv? Fine, okay – let's play the _Guess What Day It Is_ Game."

He dared her. She couldn't answer. It wasn't that she didn't know; it's that she couldn't remember at that particular moment, or at least that was her argument.

"Excuses," he murmured.

She just looked at him.

"_Why_ aren't you sleeping right now?"

She just looked at him.

"Why can't you sleep?"

Finally, she answered. "I'm sick."

Such gut-wrenching emotion – like she was a damn ax murderer – carried the two syllables.

"In the head?"

She rolled her eyes again. "No, jackass, I'm _sick_. I have a cold. So I can't sleep."

"Being sick makes you unable to sleep? That's completely counterintuitive."

"No, I _can_ sleep—"

"You just choose not to for tax purposes?"

"I'm sick, which means if I fall asleep I will likely stay asleep until I'm better."

"And that would be a bad thing…why?"

She stared at him like he was dumb. Or maybe downright stupid.

"Because! There's a world out there in need of our protection. But I can't help people if I'm unconscious."

"You also can't help people if you're dead on your feet. It'll look like you're helping people, but at some point, the lack of sleep will have you so muddled and delirious that you will invariably foul up. And that's a promise."

"You think I'm incapable of going without sleep?"

"I think _I'm_ incapable of going without sleep. You understand that this is biology, right? You have to rest. I'm not just issuing commands and proclamations for fun."

She made a face that indicated she thought he might be.

"_You_ _have to sleep._"

She groaned. "God, fine, if I go home will you shut up?"

"Probably."

"Well," she said, standing up. "I'll take what I can get." He realized he still had hold of her hand when she pulled him up with her. He realized that his was growing sweaty out of realization. High school, all over again.

They were too close. Oh, proximity. _Tooclosetooclosetooclose_—

He interrupted himself. "Great. I'll drive."

But that was an entirely separate argument, starting with her dropping his hand angrily. "No way. I can drive."

"I don't want you to fall asleep at the wheel and kill me."

She turned from him and started to walk toward her office. He followed, a step behind. "I'd think with your infamous charm and wit you'd have no trouble keeping me awake," she said icily. _Sting._

(The sting lessened with the fact that immediately after she yawned. She looked like an angry kitten, or panda bear, or something.)

"I wouldn't want to distract you from the actual task at hand. Which is driving." _Remember? Get her home, not drunk._ "Driving you home. So you can sleep."

_Tooclosetooclosetooclose_.

"You don't even have to come along."

"If I don't, you'll drive to the Federal Building and keep working."

She looked, interestingly enough, like she hadn't considered that. She rolled her eyes.

"No, I wouldn't." She spun around to retrieve her phone from the desk.

"Sure, you wouldn't." Like he didn't believe her. He let her put her work away and gather her things. He placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her toward the door gently.

"Wait, I can't find my keys," she said, digging around in her pockets.

He just smiled. He had lifted them off of her a good five minutes ago. The fact she hadn't noticed meant that it wasn't even stealing – it was his obligation, as her friend, to drive her home.

Of course, she probably wouldn't see it that way. But she'd be asleep sooner than she'd put it together.

Besides, he was sure he could talk his way out of it.

_I'm just looking out for you, Dunham._

(Because she's always remarkably speechless when he says that.)

* * *

She really did know that it was Saturday, she was just loathe to say it.

Did he honestly think she could get through four years at Northwestern, _plus_ rigorous training at Quantico, _plus_ work for the FBI for several years, and not see a few late nights? She was a big girl. She could handle it.

She pushed back the memory of her narrowly avoided, head-on collision this morning and straightened in the passenger seat. She really could've driven herself home.

But then she wouldn't have the excuse to study his off-brand chivalry.

He was driving strangely slow, like he was almost relaxed. He stopped lazily at abandoned street lights and stop signs, one wrist resting on the steering wheel. The well-packed, dirty snow on the streets didn't faze him, nor did the gray clouds, but she did notice him looking over at her slyly every time he braked.

Incredulous, it occurred to her that she was his baby.

"Are you trying to _rock me to sleep_?"

He tried to pick up his speed imperceptibly, and hide his chagrin. "No," he denied simply.

"I promise I will sleep," she said mockingly. "At _home._"

And she sneezed, groaned, and fell back against the seat, exhausted from the effort. Also, the road really was making her sleepy.

He tried not to laugh. "Whatever you say, zombie prom."

She made a face.

"No," she protested. And then refrained the best she could from smiling. What was with him and all the nicknames today?

"Vampire slayer?"

"No."

"Ghostbuster?"

"No."

"Sweetheart?"

Her brain stopped, then rebooted, so she answered a bit slow. "I don't think so," she half-smiled.

He just grinned, oh so elusive.

She chose to yawn in response.

It was hard to believe they'd been doing this for months now. She considered the idea of adjusting to constant upheaval.

Because that's what this was, wasn't it? Constant change. Life constantly outdoing its own good, but mostly its own bad. And then there was Peter himself, the very picture of constancy. Except that he was changing too, she thought. He was picking himself up off the pity party ground and rising to the occasion of whatever was thrown at them. He was being so…_good_.

In fact, he was looking very _good_ right now, as he put the car in park and pulled out the key, slid out, and opened her door for her. Trotted up the front steps. Unlocked the door.

Noticed she hadn't moved. Trotted back.

She blinked heavily, feeling for the first time really, truly tired.

"What's wrong?"

* * *

And that was the point where he realized she had no control over her mouth.

"I thought you were supposed to be the bad guy," she stated quietly. "In the beginning. That's what I thought."

It was a legitimate concern. He had labeled himself, from the start, as the bad guy. They had played that game for a few weeks, and it was fine, but the shrink wrap was just too small for him now. _Unhappy/unwilling_ didn't fit. Right _now_ he was happy, willing, able. But she wasn't sure, was she, if he was covering up the bad or unmasking the good. Peter thought maybe she just wanted to know where they stood.

He appeased her. "I can be the bad guy if you want," he said, very seriously. Very detached. She squinted and took his hand. Held it for the second time that day, as if it would help her see him better.

(She had the uncanny intuition that he was lying. That he was actually just a confused, sweet guy. He didn't know what he _wanted_. But definitely that he didn't want to be her villain.)

Instead of answering, she just shrugged. Got out of the car, let go, and passed him. "You can be whatever you want," she called quietly over her shoulder.

He stood motionless for a moment. "Okay." He watched her warmth fade from his hand.

He could be that guy.

He could be her guy.

(He was so glad to have her permission.)


End file.
